


This Loud Morning

by honestys_easy



Category: American Idol RPF, Music RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Loud Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven times David Cook experienced This Loud Morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Loud Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Once the title of David's upcoming album was released, my first thought was, "well, how many dirty jokes can we make about _that??_ LOL. And this fic idea immediately started forming. I hope you like it :)

_**I.  
2009** _

 

The windows dark, the curtains drawn, the sun at least an hour from peeking over the horizon, David awoke to a persistent, urgent whining in his ear.

He groaned, pinching his eyes tightly against the day, fighting wakefulness. He tried to roll over, bury his head further into his pillow, but his groan became his fatal flaw. Now his intruder knew he was conscious, and poked David squarely in the cheek.

A wet, cool nose with matching damp whiskers of hair pressed against David’s face, and that certainly jerked him from his slumber.

“Goddamnit...” he mumbled, but contrary to his curse rolled closer to his bedfellow and pulled his furry body in for a hug. “Guess I won’t be getting much sleep when you’re around, buddy.”

David expected an affectionate lick from his new puppy but instead only received that whining noise again, soft at first, but now a loud, wheezing tone. Dublin’s black fur trembled in David’s hands, and it looked like the puppy would not relent until his sleepy owner was out of bed.

After living around enough dogs to know the signs, David had a bit more incentive to wake up. “Alright, boy, I get it,” he said, scratching Dublin between his ears as he rose from the bed, scanning the bedroom floor for his pants.

Dublin followed his owner dutifully off the bed, still whining closely at his heels; David nearly tripped over the puppy when he slipped his jeans on, and that would have surely caused the accident both man and dog were looking to avoid.

“First I pee, then you pee,” he instructed, but the forlorn, nervous look on Dublin’s face made David change his mind. “Okay, you first,” he conceded, grabbing the leash from the hall table, as Dublin trotted in front of him, barking with impatient glee, already halfway towards the front door.

 

_**II.  
2007** _

 

The windows dark, the curtains drawn, the sun at least an hour from peeking over the horizon, David awoke to a persistent noise invading his eardrums.

He groaned, knowing the offending sound well: he had heard quite enough of it yesterday and well into the night, and now, it still went on, the same notes over and over again like a skipping record.

Reaching over, David pulled the other pillow over his head, attempting to stuff the fake down filling straight into his ears. Before engulfing his head in a pocket of fluff, he spied the other bed in the hotel room, a mirror to his own, except for the fact that it was completely empty.

“Get back to bed!” he shouted, though the pillow now covering his face muffled any words he had past most ears’ recognition. His companion, however, had over two decades’ worth of experience listening to David Cook’s voice--most commonly yelling at him in some fashion, especially in those teenage years--and he tried his best to decipher it.

“I’ve got to warm my voice up before auditions,” Andrew reminded him, watching through the hotel vanity mirror as David rolled over in bed, muttering curses into his pillow. He began again, the words of Paolo Nutini filling the room--a bit louder this time, with the full zeal of a little brother knowing he was getting on his older brother’s nerves.

Again came a groan from the bed. “I’ll warm my foot up in your ass.” Validated, Andrew sang louder, taking on an operatic tone until he wrested David from his slumber. It was an early wake-up call, he admitted, but only the earliest of birds could get a coveted spot in front of _American Idol_ ’s judges. They hadn’t driven all the way to Nebraska just to arrive too late.

“You should be practicing, too,” Andrew said, once the head emerged from its cocoon of pillows and David was sitting up in bed, a clump of his red hair sticking up like a cock’s comb. “You sound like you gargled gravel and Bon Jovi’s nuts last night.”

David sighed as he rummaged through his duffel, searching for any clean clothes he had thrown into the bag; he came up with an argyle sweater he thought he donated to Goodwill years ago. Should never pack in the dark, he chided himself. “I told you, I’m not auditioning,” he stressed. The entire drive from Kansas City Andrew tried to goad him into joining him, joking that he could be the next Constantine Maroulis. David didn’t even know who that was, so each time he curtly turned the offer down. “I’m just going for support.”

“And I appreciate it,” Andrew smoothed out the last wrinkles on his shirt before striking a stately pose in the mirror, one eyebrow curving up. His voice turned to a rare sincere tone. “Really Dave, I do. I owe you one.”

“You can start by shutting up on the drive to the stadium,” David suggested. The eyebrow came down into an antagonistic wink, Andrew’s mouth opened again, and Pavarotti the American Idol was reborn. He got through only four words of the chorus before David, laughing, chucked one of the pillows at Andrew’s head.

 

_**III.  
2008** _

 

“Wow. It’s...wow.”

The curtains drawn, early dawn light welcoming a New York City morning; less than an hour from the moment he’d be stepping out into that light, a different musician, a different man.

“I know, man. Look at this spread! Salmon and cream cheese bites! Not the cheap shit, either, that’s a real slab of fish on that Triscuit. You know you’ve really made it.”

David smiled, his eyes on the window, as Andrew stuffed his face courtesy of The Today Show. Not everything was different, after all.

The blackout curtains printed with NBC logos were meant to shield the talent from the crowd outside just as much as they drove out the sun from the interior; in the past few weeks David had gotten a crash course in discovering why that might be necessary. But even so, his curiosity--and a bit of his ego--got the better of him. Pulling the heavy shade back inch by inch, he peeked out onto the promenade of Rockefeller Plaza, sharp skyscrapers’ shadows slicing through the May sun.

There to greet him was a sea of people, packed together in the promenade, a humming, breathing mass moving, sitting in wait. Before them lay a makeshift stage, situated only a few feet above the ground, Teamsters putting the final technical touches on the lighting and camerawork; it was only a matter of minutes before someone would come into the room and suit him up with a microphone. The fans must have been there hours, lining around Fifth Avenue, overlooking the classic attractions of Manhattan for a new attraction, hot from Hollywood, on the precipice of stardom and fame, currently hiding behind a curtain.

Out of the throng of people came a shriek of elation, starting a chain reaction of screams and squeals throughout the crowd, like echoes off of cave walls. David thought absently that they must have seen some celebrity walk by, one of those New York sightings tourists always claim to see yet Alexis and Neal told him never actually happened. He almost considered looking for the star himself before he realized the star they all screamed for was _him_.

His eyes grew watery and the make-up assistant would hate him for it; his mouth went dry and Andrew would offer him one of the premium brand tea bags, the first time they had a cup without Lipton on the tag. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of those shrieks. “I’ve really made it,” he repeated Andrew’s words, soft enough that only he could hear.

 

**_IV.  
2009_ **

 

David stuck his head into the sliver of light between the curtain and the bus’s window, hoping to catch a glimpse of an empty parking lot.

No such luck.

The flicker of movement caused by his hand inching back the curtain caught the onlookers’ attentions: within seconds a wave of shrieks and hollers came from the crowd, small but vociferous. He even spied a few posters in the bunch. Holy fuck, was it too early in the goddamn morning for posters.

He scowled, and wondered how he would ever get from the bus to the fairgrounds without a thousand requests for his photo, his autograph, if he could flash his new tattoo or give an elderly woman a hug. Nothing was going to stand in the way between David Cook and his deep-fried peanut butter cup.

“I am getting really tired of that screaming,” he said to himself, shaking his head.

Living on a tour bus for months, David learned over a year ago that in such close quarters, one never said anything only to oneself. He felt more than heard the presence of another body in the back lounge on the bus; he knew it was Andy when that body leaned in, taking his own look at the gawking crowd, his concept of personal boundaries far more liberal than Kyle or Neal.

“No you’re not,” he called David out on his remark; David didn’t even need to turn around to see the smirk on Andy’s face, he could hear it dripping from his voice. “You love it.”

Shaking his head, David couldn’t help but smile as he accused Andy of being an ass, and Andy fittingly gave him a healthy slap on the body part in question.

 

**_V.  
2004_ **

 

It took a moment after waking, his mouth dry and his head aching from an inevitable hangover, for David to realize he wasn’t in his own bed. It was another moment before he realized whoever he had gone home with that night was still in bed with him, crouching between David’s legs, swallowing down his cock.

After that second moment David didn’t think much of anything.

The headache immediately dissolved in favor of more pleasurable sensations; his brain, for once, was cooperating with the rest of him. David’s head dropped back against the foreign pillow, teeth drawing his lower lip in, biting back a moan. He tried to remember the events of last night that brought him into an unknown bedroom but his memory only recalled snippets of the night, bursts of sound and movement drowned out by alcohol.

His hands went from his sides inwards towards his crotch, towards the head bobbing expertly on his dick, one brushing over a hollowed cheek, prickled by stubble; the other tangled itself in his bedfellow’s hair, thick yet short in between his fingers. David found himself unsurprised by this discovery; even if he were, he was already too far gone to care, pressing his hands in harder, more persistent, as he thrust into a warm, waiting mouth. His fingers tightened around the locks of hair and earned a lustful groan from his partner, the tone deep and guttural, reverberating all around David.

With his hazel eyes snapping open, a wave of realization washed over David, crashing against the sudden shock of pleasure, and this time he didn’t hold back his moans.

The night was coming back to him now: his good friend Bryan inviting him down to Tulsa for spring break, meeting some of Bryan’s acquaintances in the local music scene; celebrating the night away with cold beers and warm company. He had met Neal that night, anticipating an introduction ever since Bryan’s first glowing reviews of his talent, hoping to spend the week strumming his strings and picking his brain. And he had met Andy, whose soft, sly smile guarded the vocal powerhouse within, who Bryan boasted could possibly sing even better than David, with three fewer years’ experience under his belt. He remembered passing drinks and stories around the table, his eye catching Andy’s every now and again, a playful elbow into his side, a knee brushing against his underneath the table. It was his fifth shot of whiskey that made David black out, he supposed, the last vestiges of his memory flashing the sensation of Andy’s hand squeezing his thigh.

Now David finally understood who had invited him to this bed last night, who now lay between his legs, mouth on his cock, enveloping in wet heat. The memory alone nearly shook David over the edge, his thighs trembling before Andy moved to hold them down, agile fingers digging into David’s pale skin. He poked his head up to watch and his body involuntarily shuddered, spying Andy’s eyes closed, long lashes dotting his hollowed cheeks, his lips swollen and slick as they moved expertly along David’s shaft, torturiously retreating only to take him in deeper.

Unable to control himself David moaned, eager to hear Andy’s name on his lips. He couldn’t help himself--didn’t want to, really, not with the way Andy was making him feel, his lips tight around David’s cock, tongue lapping at the head. Andy swallowed around him suddenly and David shouted, his panting heavy and audible in the air, now thick and hot, permeating his flesh. Just as he thought he couldn’t take any more, feeling the telltale pressure coiling in his gut and imagining shooting down that delicate throat, Andy relented, pulling himself off of David with a _pop_ louder to David’s ears than anything coming from his own mouth.

David whimpered in protest, a cursing complaint on his lips--though, when a new lover wakes you up with a blow job, who was he really to complain about anything--but Andy’s intense gaze and the smirk creeping up on his face stopped him.

Andy pressed his fingers into David’s thighs again, testing, and David’s hips pulsed, his body desperate for contact. It was clear to him that Andy liked having that power over him. His brow knit into mock bemusement, the smirk turning into a frown. David realized exactly what brought him to this bed last night.

“You’re loud,” Andy observed, his voice a low, lustful deadpan, and before David could protest, Andy sank down on David’s cock once more, taking all of him in, and proved himself right.

 

**_VI.  
2010_ **

 

“Oh, shit, Neal, yes! _Yes!_ ”

David pulled a second pillow over his head, clamping it over his ears, his eyes wide and awake with horror. With any luck, he could use the pillow to asphyxiate himself.

They had been at it for forty-five minutes that morning. _Forty-five minutes_. David hadn’t even been sure that was  possible, but so thankfully for him Neal and Kira decided to educate him. Andrew, who slept like the dead, didn’t have to endure this along with his brother; Dublin, the smart little pup he was growing to be, stayed downstairs. David was the only one subjected to the sounds of young love echoing through his house.

And Jesus tapdancing Christ, were they _loving_ the fuck out of each other right now.

“Holy fuck! Kira--”

“Don’t stop--oh fuck, _there_ , harder-- _harder_ dammit!”

“Fuck yeah...”

Thirty-five minutes ago, when the thick walls of his new house only revealed soft thumps against the drywall, David considered rolling over and trying to go back to sleep. Fifteen minutes ago he thought to chew out his real estate agent and chew her out for blatantly lying about the supposed thick walls. Ten minutes after that, he seriously contemplated charging down there and evicting Neal on the spot for annoying the hell out of his landlord and ruining a rock star’s well-earned sleep.

Now he wondered if even a bullet to the head would stop them. He supposed it would have to depend on the head.

When it finally ended--a loud, window-rattling climax with fifteen minutes of warm, murmuring affection, David holding his breath lest the lovebirds decide to have another go--he, bleary-eyed and irritated, confronted Neal.

“Were you trying to be as loud as fucking possible?” he scowled, pinching the bridge of his nose in between two fingers. “Try a little louder next time, Neal, I don’t think Burbank heard you.”

But his friend, unsurprisingly, was unrepentant. “You’re damn right I was trying,” he said, and it took a moment for David to realize there wasn’t a “that’s what she said” joke to be had in the comment. “This is payback.”

“For what?”

Neal crossed his arms in front of his chest, refusing to back down. “For how many fucking months I had to listen to you make Andy come. Really not something I ever wanted to hear from my best friend, Dave; both of you.”

David wanted to protest, that this was a completely different situation, that he was obviously the more injured party here, but Neal did have a point. He nodded sagely, the only concession he would give. “Duly noted,” he said, now knowing exactly how that felt.

“And you got off light,” Neal added, pointing an accusatory finger at David. David frowned, wondering how that rude awakening this morning could have ever been considered light revenge. “My room’s down the hall; I only had one wall separating me in Tulsa, and a shitty one at that.”

“With the way you sounded, coulda swore you were galloping down the damn hallway,” David muttered; only a smug grin and a choice finger from Neal told him that his friend had heard the remark.

“You’re just lucky I haven’t installed Kira’s swing yet.” A friendly slap on David’s shoulder marked the end of the minor argument between friends, and Neal shuffled past him in the hallway, heading towards the stairs. “C’mon, I think she’s making pancakes down there, I’m sure if she’s in a good mood she’ll make you some.” Basking in the glow of being the only committed male in the house, Neal took a long, exaggerated stretch at the top of the stairs, and winked as he descended. “And I put her in a good mood about six times this morning.”

Grumbling, David humbly followed, unable to let his resentment deprive him of Kira’s homemade pancakes. He was already at the third stair when he looked up, a deep furrow in his brow. “Kira has a sex swing?!”

 

**_VII.  
2011_ **

 

If an Access Hollywood correspondent--or, heaven forbid, Seacrest--were to pop out from behind the toaster oven and ask with the cameras rolling, he’d say it took him two and a half years to get to this moment.

If it were just between him, the toaster, and the CD in his hands, it took him twenty-eight.

With one hand he traced the edge of the disc with the tip of his finger, feeling the sharp edge dig into the skin, letting him know what he held in his hands was real. David wasn’t a vain man--except maybe on Thursdays--but he could stare at that cover art forever, a small smile playing on his face as he underlined the album’s title with his thumb, accenting it, marking the endeavor with a big, imaginary exclamation point.

His first years were training, honing his talents and gaining new skills, perfecting stagecraft, getting used to the shine of the lights in his eyes. His months with _Idol_ gave him keys to the monkey house, letting him know the inner workings of the machine to come out the victor. The first album was a foot in the door, putting his name down in plaster, and then in platinum.

But this? This was his baby.

The smile widened as he placed the first copy of the press onto the kitchen counter, his own well-dressed visage looking back at him as he continued to butter his toast.


End file.
